Chapter Text
The wind was having a go at the eaves, but the cabin wasn't listening. It sat hunched between moor and mountain, a place that had fallen off the map, and good riddance. Finn had seen to that.
Inside, you wouldn't call it sparse. You'd call it punishment. A woodstove coughed out more smoke than heat, a cot offered the kind of welcome you'd expect from a park bench, and the kettle looked like it had lost a fight with rust and come off worse.
Finn Mallory moved with a contained intensity, his gaze sharp and assessing. He had a rugged handsomeness, with a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a hint of stubble that suggested a man who didn't concern himself with trivialities. His dark hair, often disheveled, hinted at a restless energy. He had a lean build, honed and strong, suggesting a physicality born of both discipline and a demanding life. There was a depth to his eyes, a weariness that hinted at a past he didn't readily share, but also a fierce intelligence that made it clear he was not to be underestimated.
Then the silence got mugged.
Not by birdsong, and certainly not by any breeze. An engine, low and careful, feeling its way through the gloom. Finn's gaze flicked to the window, but he didn't get up. Not yet.
A few heartbeats later, the door creaked open, and Jackson Lamb slouched in, trailing his usual aroma of stale cigarettes and thinly veiled contempt.
"Well," Lamb grunted, surveying the cabin with the air of a man who'd been promised squalor and found the brochure hadn't lied, "still playing badger, I see."
Finn remained silent.
Behind Lamb, Catherine Standish stepped into the room.
That got Finn moving.
The knife wasn't thrown, but it might as well have been. It hit the table with a clatter that echoed the sudden tension as Finn stood, every muscle tightening. Lamb's expression, as ever, suggested he'd eaten something unpleasant. Standish, to her credit, didn't so much as blink.
The air thickened. Seventeen years fell away like shed skin.
"...You," Finn said, his voice sandpaper on gravel.
Standish's lips parted a near-silent greeting. "Hello, Finn."
Lamb blinked. Once. "Anyone care to translate, or am I going to have to start checking dental records?"
Finn's laugh was short, without humor. "You brought her?"
"No," Standish said, her voice level. "I volunteered."
That gave Finn pause. He studied her, the suspicion in his eyes battling with something else, something...wary.
"Get out," Finn told Lamb.
Lamb's mouth opened, ready to unleash a torrent of abuse.
"Jackson," Standish said, quiet but firm.
It wasn't a request.
Lamb's face did that twitchy thing it did when he was trying to decide between a cutting remark and a strategic retreat. The strategic retreat won, but only just. He stumped back outside, muttering something about "bleeding hearts" and "wasting good oxygen," and lit a cigarette with unnecessary force.
Silence returned, heavier now.
"Didn't think you'd place me," Standish said, her voice soft.
Finn's gaze flickered. "I place everyone from that year."
They stood in the unsaid then, the ghosts of draughty church basements and lukewarm coffee swirling around them. The hesitant nods. The shared struggle.
"Why are you here, Catherine?" Finn asked.
Standish looked away, briefly. "They need your help. But I thought you might need someone to tell you the truth."
His jaw tightened. "And you're volunteering for that gig?"
"Someone has to."
Finn moved, a restless prowl. Standish stayed put. She knew better than to crowd a cornered animal.
"How long?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the cracked window.
"Seventeen years."
He nodded, once. "You stayed dry."
"I did. You?"
A pause. "Mostly."
"Why did you leave the meetings?"
He turned, the set of his jaw suggesting the question was unwelcome. "Because I started meeting too many liars who were better at it than me."
The words landed, a shared cynicism neither of them needed to explain.
He studied her again, less hostile now, more...intrigued. "Still with the Service?"
"I'm with Slough House," she said, her tone the weary cadence of a long-term ailment.
Finn snorted. "Explains him."
Standish offered a ghost of a smile. "Lamb's...unorthodox."
"That's one way of saying he's a menace to public health and safety."
Standish tilted her head. "He's also kept me breathing. He looks after his own, in his way."
A beat. Finn's eyes narrowed. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You think I'm still one of yours."
"No," she said, her voice steady. "I think you're someone who still cares. However hard you try not to."
Another pause. Then, so quiet it was almost a confession: "Used to wonder about you," Finn said. "After."
She swallowed. "Used to hope you got out."
Their eyes met, a silent conversation bridging the years—
CRASH.
The door flew open as Lamb blundered back in, cigarette dangling from his lip and a thunderous expression on his face.
"Right, now that we've all had a good cry," he snarled, "can we get back to the part where people are trying to kill us and the clock's ticking?"
"They shouldn't have pushed him," Standish snapped, surprising even herself.
Finn's gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable.
Lamb stabbed a finger in the general direction of Finn. "Let's not pretend our little reunion here isn't sitting on a file marked 'liability with a pulse.' We're not here for a hug and a chat, we're here to extract information."
"And failing," Finn said coldly.
Lamb's mouth opened for a cutting retort—
POP-POP-POP.
Gunfire.
They dropped without thinking, years of instinct kicking in. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.
Finn was already moving, dragging the heavy table across the room for cover. "North Ridge. Two, maybe three shooters. Suppressed weapons, but they're close."
Lamb, with the casual air of a man reaching for his wallet, pulled a pistol from his coat. "Back exit?"
Finn's smirk was grim. "You think I'd only have one way out?"
Standish, meanwhile, had grabbed the canvas bag she'd spotted earlier.
"Tunnel under the floorboards?" she asked Finn.
He looked at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Close enough." He lifted a corner of the rug, revealing a rusty latch. "Storage crawlspace. Leads to the tree line. If they're not watching the back—"
"They're watching the back," Lamb interrupted, already crouching to wrestle with the latch.
Outside, the gunfire intensified.
Finn retrieved a second weapon from a hidden drawer and tossed it to Standish. She caught it cleanly.
"You know how to use that?" he asked.
She checked the safety. "I've worked for Lamb. I pick things up."
A ghost of a smile passed between them. Then the moment vanished, replaced by the press of survival.
Lamb vanished into the gloom beneath the floorboards, grumbling about "tight spaces" and "bloody amateurs." Standish moved to follow, but Finn caught her wrist, his grip surprisingly firm.
"Why did you come?"
She met his gaze, the echo of something shared in her eyes. "Because you need someone who isn't playing a game, Finn. Someone who remembers what it's like, to tell the truth."
A heartbeat. Then they were moving, disappearing into the darkness as the sound of gunfire swallowed the last of the light.
The tunnel was a coffin for the living. Damp earth walled them in, the air thick with the smell of rot and ancient metal. Finn, in his element, led the way with grim efficiency, a torch clipped to his collar, the beam doing little to dispel the gloom.
Behind him, Standish followed with a practiced stoicism. Lamb, however, was having a crisis of bulk.
“Christ on a bike. This isn’t an escape hatch, it’s a bloody humiliation,” he grunted, scraping his coat on the low ceiling.
Finn didn’t bother to look back. “Structural integrity. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Sure,” Lamb muttered. “All that paranoia finally came in handy.”
They emerged, blinking, into the bruised light of the forest. Finn pushed up a cunningly concealed panel, the mechanism silent and smooth.
“Ridge has two,” he murmured, scanning the tree line. “One dog leg right. They move like they’ve done this before.”
“How sure are you?” Standish asked.
Finn’s jaw clenched. “I trained guys like them. These aren’t amateurs.”
Lamb grunted. “We get it. You’re very impressive.”
Finn turned to Standish, his hand going to her cheek for a brief moment, wiping away the dirt. “You alright?”
“Breathing, mostly,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Lamb made a noise like a badger choking on a wasp. “For Christ’s sake. Can we dispense with the tender moments? Bullets, remember?”
“South along the creek,” Finn said, already moving. “Water will mask our noise. Half a klick to a break in the ridge – the natural blind spot. Then west to where I’ve parked something marginally less offensive than this tunnel.”
“You have a car?” Lamb said, surprised.
“I plan ahead. It’s a survival trait you might want to develop.”
Standish raised an eyebrow at Lamb. “We’re trusting this…vehicle?”
“It runs,” Finn said. “I worked on it last week.”
“You managed to fix up a car while playing hermit in the woods?” Lamb muttered, trailing after them. “How…touching.”
Finn ignored him, his focus already on the terrain.
They moved with a speed that belied the difficult ground, slipping through the shadows. The creek gurgled beside them, a constant rush of sound.
At a brief halt, Finn gestured Standish closer, his voice low. “You remembered the tunnel. After all this time.”
“Some things stick,” she said.
“You think I forget things that matter?” she said.
Finn’s expression softened again—just a flicker, just enough to spark something unspoken between them.
Lamb watched this from a few feet back, his jaw grinding. He tugged his coat tighter as if bracing against a draft.
“I’m starting to think I should’ve brought Ho instead,” he muttered under his breath.
“Ho would’ve shot him by now,” Standish said evenly, not turning.
“Exactly.”
Minutes later, Finn dropped to a crouch behind a fallen log.
“There,” he breathed, pointing. A mud-caked Jeep sat in a hollow, draped in a tarpaulin that looked suspiciously like a body bag.
“No movement. We go fast. Lamb first, try not to fall over. Standish, you’re next. I’ll bring up the rear.”
“You sure about that?” Standish asked.
“Best shot. Besides, they’ll be expecting me to bolt.”
Standish hesitated a shadow of concern in her eyes. Then, with a curt nod, she moved.
The sprint was short and brutal. Lamb reached the Jeep and wrestled the tarp off, cursing as he fumbled for the keys. Standish followed, low and fast. Finn hung back, his rifle raised.
The shot cracked the silence. Bark exploded beside Finn’s head.
Standish turned back instinctively—too instinctively—and Lamb growled. “He’ll catch up! Get in!”
Standish, with a speed that surprised even Lamb, was already diving into the back of the Jeep as Finn slid in beside her, a dark bloom spreading on his temple.
The engine coughed, then roared. Lamb, with violence that suggested a personal grudge against the gearbox, slammed it into gear. They lurched forward, scattering mud and gravel.
Inside, the silence was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the rattle of the old vehicle.
Lamb, eyes fixed on the track ahead, glanced once in the rearview mirror. “You two planning a cuddle, or should I put my foot down?”
Standish said nothing.
Finn smirked faintly. “Drive, Lamb.”
And for once, Lamb did—without another word.
-
The safe house was a converted shepherd’s hut tucked in the folds of a forgotten valley—stone-walled, moss-covered, and so off-grid it didn’t appear on any Service maps still in circulation. Finn had found it years ago, buried in the ruins of an old contingency plan.
It welcomed them with creaking floors and the faint, lingering scent of wood smoke and peat.
Lamb entered first, as if by some unwritten rule that said the loudest bastard should always lead.
“Rustic,” he muttered, kicking aside a discarded log. “Like a murder-suicide Airbnb.”
Finn didn’t smile. He was focused on the small first-aid kit nailed to the inner wall, already unpacking gauze with steady fingers.
Standish followed, glancing around. “This place is… quiet.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Lamb grunted.
“It is,” she said and meant it.
Minutes later, Finn sat on the narrow bunk while Standish dabbed gently at the graze on his forehead. He winced but didn’t pull away.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.
“I’ve worked with Lamb long enough,” she replied, voice soft. “You learn a few things. Like how to patch people up while pretending they’re not bleeding out.”
“Reassuring.”
“I try.”
Their eyes met—briefly but unavoidably close in the low light.
Finn exhaled slowly. “You never asked why I left.”
“I assumed you’d tell me when you were ready.”
A silence stretched between them. Something fragile flickered underneath it.
“Betrayal,” he said at last. “The kind that makes you burn the uniform rather than turn it in. I thought walking away would keep me clean. Turns out, you carry the dirt with you.”
Standish nodded her hand still on his temple. “Some things we don’t walk away from. We just… keep walking.”
His gaze lingered.
Behind them, a kettle rattled.
“I am still in the room,” Lamb said, voice dry as dust from the far side of the hut. He sat by the woodstove, legs stretched, cigarette burning, and unreadable expression fixed firmly on the two of them.
Standish stepped back, the moment folding itself away like a note returned to a pocket.
Finn looked to Lamb. “You didn’t bring me in just for the intel.”
“No,” Lamb said, exhaling smoke. “They want your help with something. Ugly, deniable, probably suicidal.”
“And you?”
“I’m here to make sure you don’t vanish. Again.”
Finn tilted his head. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone. But you especially.”
Standish crossed her arms. “He’s here now. That should count for something.”
Lamb looked at her, sharp. “It does. Which is what worries me.”
There was a beat of silence—loaded, suspended.
Then Finn stood, testing his balance. “I’ll take the first watch. Whoever was chasing us wasn’t freelance. They’ll regroup.”
Standish opened her mouth to argue, but Lamb cut in.
“Let him. If he’s going to bolt, better now than at breakfast.”
Finn looked at Standish, something unspoken passing between them. She didn’t press. He stepped out into the cool dark, rifle slung across his shoulder.
-
Inside, Lamb watched her watch the door for a few too many seconds.
“You always go for the broken ones?” he asked, not unkindly.
She didn’t flinch. “They’re the only ones who understand how to put things back together.”
Lamb snorted. “Romantic nonsense.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Survival.”
-
Outside, Finn stood on the rise just behind the hut, watching the horizon turn from black to ink blue. The stars overhead were sharp and cold.
In his pocket, he still carried a worn AA chip. He hadn’t looked at it in months.
Tonight, he did.
And he stayed.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers.
Lamb sat back in the threadbare armchair near the stove, one leg propped up on a crate. He nursed a chipped mug of something brown and questionably alcoholic, his eyes half-lidded but tracking every movement in the dim light.
Across from him, Standish stood at the small sink, rinsing out a bloodied cloth with practiced care. The water was cold and metallic, echoing in the basin like something out of memory.
“You always this calm after being shot at?” Lamb finally asked.
Standish didn’t turn. “You get used to it.”
“Hmm.” He took a slow sip. “That thing out there… Finn. You two knew each other before Slough House?”
She set the cloth aside and wrung it out with slow, deliberate precision. “Briefly.”
Lamb grunted. “AA.”
It wasn’t a question. Just Lamb’s way of stepping over a line like it wasn’t there.
She didn’t answer right away.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said at last.
“No?” He swirled the contents of his mug. “Could’ve fooled me. The way he looked at you.”
“Don’t start,” she warned, turning now.
“I’m not judging,” Lamb said. “I mean—hell, I am. But I’m not wrong , am I?”
There was something old and bitter in his voice. Not jealousy—he wasn’t built for that. But discomfort, maybe. A kind of wounded pride he’d never admit to owning.
Standish met his gaze, steady.
“We shared something important at a time when everything else was falling apart. That’s not romance. That’s survival.”
“Sounds like poetry,” Lamb muttered. “Should put it on a mug.”
She moved to the stove, poured herself some tea and sat on the edge of the cot.
“Is this going to be a problem?” she asked.
“For me?” Lamb scoffed. “No. I’ve worked with people I liked less. Hell, I’ve worked with people I actively wanted dead.”
“But you don’t trust him.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, shrugging. “But him? No. He’s got eyes like someone waiting to disappear. You know that look.”
She didn’t answer.
Lamb watched her for a moment, then sighed. “He’s not just some asset to you.”
“No,” she said. “He’s not.”
They sat in silence.
A wind picked up outside, whistling faintly through the gaps in the stone walls.
Lamb leaned back, studying the fire.
“I’ve seen you carry a lot,” he said. “Bureaucratic grief. My bullshit. Drunk spooks and slow horses dragging their feet through the mud.”
He paused.
“But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you care this way. Not about one of them .”
Standish looked down at the cup in her hands, then over to the door where Finn had disappeared into the night.
“He’s not one of them,” she said softly.
Lamb stared at her for a moment. Then drained his mug.
“Well,” he muttered, standing with effort. “Let’s hope that doesn’t get us all killed.”
-
Outside, Finn paced the perimeter. His breath misted in the cold. Something stirred in the tree line—a flicker of movement, a branch too still.
He raised his rifle.
Nothing.
Not yet.
But soon.
By the time Finn stepped back inside, the hut had settled into a hush so still, it might’ve been forgotten by the world. Lamb was snoring softly in the armchair, a blanket slung over his chest, one hand still loosely cradling a half-empty bottle.
Standish looked up from her seat on the edge of the cot.
“You’re back early.”
Finn shrugged off his jacket, still damp with mist. “Wind shifted. If anyone’s coming, it won’t be tonight. Thought I’d warm up before I lost a toe.”
She nodded, then hesitated, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than necessary. A subtle flush colored her cheeks. “There’s... not much space.” Her voice was softer now, slightly husky.
He followed her gaze to the cot. Narrow. Old. Just wide enough for one, unless— He met her eyes, a flicker of challenge and something deeper passing between them. “I’ll take the floor,” he said, the words a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken.
“You’re injured,” she replied, her tone equally even, but with a hint of concern that betrayed her professional detachment. Her eyes tracked the faint graze near his temple, her focus intense.
He glanced at it, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s nothing.” He straightened, the movement fluid and unexpectedly graceful, his gaze holding hers.
She stood, the silence stretching, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the mission. She moved to the far corner, her movements deliberate, each one drawing his attention. When she turned, the extra blanket and pillow seemed almost an offering. She handed them to him, and this time, their fingers brushed more than slightly. A spark ignited, a jolt of heat that shot up his arm, making his breath catch.
Finn knelt to arrange the blanket, his movements slower than necessary, the awareness of her proximity a tangible thing. “You always do that?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, the question a pretext for prolonging the moment.
“What?” She turned slightly, her body angled towards him, her expression unreadable, yet her eyes held a new vulnerability.
“Put everyone else first.” He looked up, his gaze searching hers, a hint of admiration and something more possessive in his eyes.
She paused, her breath catching imperceptibly. “Better than assuming I come first.” A hint of a smile touched her lips, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken challenge between them.
“Touché.” He lay back, exhaling slowly, the sound intimate in the confined space. The floor was hard, the air cold, but his skin still tingled from their brief touch. The silence was different now, thick with a longing that both of them seemed to feel, punctuated by the soft crackle of dying embers and the subtle sounds of Standish shifting on the mattress above.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked after a while, his voice rougher now, the question laced with a deeper invitation.
“I’ve had worse nights.” Her reply was soft, a quiet admission that hinted at shared experiences, shared hardships, and perhaps, a shared resilience…and something else.
A beat passed, the air growing warmer.
“AA meeting in 2009,” he said suddenly, the memory vivid, his voice a low, intimate confession. “Second floor of that church near Shepherd’s Bush. Fluorescent lights, terrible coffee.”
A genuine smile softened her features in the dark. “You sat in the back and didn’t speak for three weeks.” Her voice was filled with a wry amusement, a fondness that belied the professional distance she usually maintained.
“I was figuring out if you were real.” He turned his head slightly; his gaze fixed on the shadows where he imagined her face to be.
“I was wondering the same about you.” Her voice was a low whisper, a shared secret in the darkness.
A silence bloomed between them, heavier now, charged with a mixture of tenderness and a dangerous, undeniable attraction.
“I wanted to say something, back then,” he said, his voice husky with regret and a present desire. “More than once.”
“So did I.” Her voice was barely audible, a breath against the silence.
“But—”
“I know,” she said before he could finish, her words a soft caress. “It wasn’t the time.”
Another quiet beat, the tension coiling tighter.
“And now?” he asked, the question hanging in the air, thick with anticipation.
She didn’t answer right away. Outside, the wind picked up again, mirroring the turbulence within them. A branch tapped against the window—just once, a sharp, insistent sound that made them both jump, their eyes meeting in the darkness.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice a raw whisper, laced with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself. “But I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean anything.”
Finn turned onto his side on the floor, his body angled towards the cot, his gaze fixed on the shadows where he knew she lay. Every word, every breath, vibrated between them. “Me too.”
Lamb stirred in the armchair, muttering in his sleep. Something about rats and incompetent analysts. Neither of them moved.
-
Outside, in the distance beyond the hills, headlights blinked off. Boots hit soft earth.
They weren’t alone anymore.